It’s strange to think it was only freshman year of college when I finally, properly understood academic writing. Structure, message, evidence, etc. “Expository Writing” about Poe and I, haunted by his ghosts, tracing his steps all the way to graveyard, nodding to ravens, thinking that not to be stalked, seduced and entrapped by monsters may just mean not living at all.
See, while I respectfully admire academic writing (from a distance) and usually attempt to make some fickle-fable point, this one’s not about that at all. Boom! — there goes your sandwich structure.
“What Katie Did,” but Katie never does anything. Actions aren’t real. Rather feel it, think it, Alice in Wonderland-y “Drink me.” All these weird aesthetics, stories to make up, ideas to trash, soundtracks for life. Consider this an open invitation to a world of no happenings. Hush and let it give itself away.
At times I thought that what was wrong with McCoy was the illumination. Too bright, too much; it doesn’t render itself well to the naiveté of romanticizing. Ugh, and its age: not old enough to give you the creeps, yet not new enough to be mice-free. Good old McCoy drove me insane.
This ginger kid and I once hung around near the front conducting fake interviews but almost believing that we would do something with the responses eventually. “Once upon a time at Hopkins... finish the sentence?” or “What does hummus look like?” and half-drunk students talking about stopping traffic in speedos or that hummus looked like squashed peas (duh!).
Think I had a “Calculus III” midterm the day after, so not the proudest moment of my academic career. (Have you noticed taking away the “I” gives writing a less arrogant ring? Believe it does. Could use some of that.)
Another time we put an all-female mini comedy act together and performed it on the stairs for bypassing folks: “Hey, do you wanna see our comedy act?” And they did just to be polite and it wasn’t funny and we didn’t think it important.
Guess what I’m trying to say is we were trying (unsuccessfully) to break the goddamn cycle, because the walls of McCoy got so narrow with time, it was surprising we could breathe at all. More like we could breathe, but not enough oxygen, so it was a constant in-out without the satisfaction (much like female freshman sex).
The last morning I painted my nails (badly) with glitter nail polish and we went to get bagels and the unpacked suitcases back in our rooms had claws and tricks to lure us back and it felt heavy one last time before feather light mountain air (for me).
Some pieces of dialogue at this place have a knack for staying, though unwanted and ringing in monotone, when you have something important due the next day. It is not often that one feels smart — not like high school. You can do beautiful more easily than you can do smart: no one tries for “pretty” that much, so the curve is generous.
What I’ve found about talent is A’s and B’s don’t mean much. If you have something — anything — that people pull you out of a room for, when they’re all starry-eyed and mesmerized, then do it. Something out of the ordinary, out of context, out of what’s allowed. Seize it. Squeeze the red balloon ‘til it pops. Kiss it gently. Kill it lovely.
Oh, another good location: Jackie’s tattoo parlor. In the middle of nowhere, so take a taxi. She said “you girls have riot,” and it is one of the ringing dialogues mentioned before. (Oh no, did you skip some parts? Millenials... attention span absence and such.) You won’t expect 50-year-old lesbians to exist, and yet, they do it so wonderfully. Always assumed at a certain age everyone fizzles into bisexuality, gets a pair of grandchildren out of nowhere, and tattoos just wear off. It may or may not work like that.
Starbucks is always either green tea/Americano or chai tea latte, an apricot nutrition bar, eight king-size, Double Stuf Oreos, a blueberry muffin and sour cream chips. My ineptitude in making nutritional decisions that could pass for an eating disorder, but I’m not particularly chubby or slender, so people don’t fret about that. Also very proud of owning exactly one perfect pink mug.
Didn’t John Lennon say, “Imagine no possessions” or something and “Give peace a chance”? But my friend Nab talks about how war could be good for this country (enemies make patriots and Putin’s evil and so on) and I shut up about Lennon. Living for bizarre opinions and weird hours.
My view from the window this year has a very encouraging feel to it. Makes you feel like humming the cliché of “Good morning, Baltimore,” smelling of lavender and honey and coming home early. But then the people you want to come home to wake up one day and feel weird in that they don’t want you to come home to them. And you make some tea in your perfect pink mug, read a Neruda poem or two, miss them, pass them by and then pass them along.
Truth is, it’s all swell, as long as you pass your classes. Lennon said, “Nothing’s gonna change my world.” Well, it did.
